


Witches In Trees

by Cumbersome



Series: Witches Do Awkward [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Femslash, One Shot, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 10:33:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23349955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cumbersome/pseuds/Cumbersome
Summary: A fluffy one shot of Bellatrix seducing the pants right off of Hermione. Figuratively speaking.Also known as the one shot that became a...two shot?
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Bellatrix Black Lestrange
Series: Witches Do Awkward [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1718983
Comments: 35
Kudos: 503





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is dedicated to all the hardcore Bellamione shippers whose hearts I shattered with my last fic. You were all so kind even though I was cruel, so I feel you deserve this. It's only a little thing, but I enjoyed it, so I think you will too.

Bellatrix Black is many things. She is a survivor. She is a warrior. She is a fanatic and a mad woman and a murderer. She is the dark side of the moon. She is the ember of fire glowing in the center of a dead volcano, slowly growing hotter, brighter, waiting for the time to be right. 

She is also very drunk and stuck up a tree. 

“How in Merlin’s gunky wisdom teeth did she get up there?” Ron says, head tilted back.

“I climbed, you cunt,” she says. She wavers, hand against the rough trunk of the tree, an eye slipping closed. 

“Can’t you climb back down?” Harry calls up.

“What does it look like, Harry?” Hermione says, glowering. 

Sheepish, he swallows. “I mean, she got herself up there.” 

“Did not!” Bellatrix says with a hiccup. 

There is a thump and the trio look down to see a bottle of firewhisky lying in the leaves pooled at the base of the tree. It is, unsurprisingly, empty.

“Blimey,” Ron says. “She’s not going anywhere like that.” 

“We could levitate her down,” Harry suggests. 

“You point one wand at me and I will eat your guts, Potter!” Bellatrix screams. 

“That’s it,” Hermione says, wearing her best determined frown. “Hold my coat.” 

“You’re sure, Mione?” Harry says. He winces as she shoves the garment into his arms. “She looks a bit...vicious.” 

“Fuck you, Potter,” Bellatrix mumbles. 

Bellatrix sits quietly as Hermione shimmies and climbs her way up the tree. She peers down as the girl looks up at her with those ridiculous doe eyes, clinging to the trunk of the tree like a kitten in a storm. 

“May I sit next to you?” she asks. 

Bellatrix snorts. Only Hermione Fucking Granger would feel the need to ask for permission to sit on a tree branch. Only Hermione Fucking Granger would give two stinking shits about a former Death Eater’s feefees. 

“I suppose,” Bellatrix drawls, doing her best nonchalant impression. Really, she watches the girl as carefully as her buzzing vision will allow. It would be such a shame if she were to slip and snap that pretty little neck. 

Hermione hauls herself up onto the branch, balancing as she tucks herself between Bellatrix and the tree. Idly, Bellatrix wonders what the girl would do if she touched her, passing her cool fingers over the smooth muscles of her forearm, maybe a bit higher, over her shoulder, round to the back of her neck. 

Probably fall out of the fucking tree, the idiot. 

Hermione shifts, flashing an uncertain smile. “Why are you out here?” 

Bellatrix frowns, looking from their tree branch to the house below them. Every window is aglow, the faces inside happy and laughing, the voices boisterous, their energy sparking. They make her feel rankled and trapped, like an animal cornered in the back of a burrow, hounds snapping at its face. 

“I don’t like the crowd,” she says simply. Because words hurt her, reveal too much. 

“Oh,” Hermione says. 

Bellatrix looks at her from the corner of her eye, casual like. She’s pretty, for a mudblood. Her eyes are large and dark, her lips make a cute little bow. The way she draws her brows together as she frowns is nothing short of a poetic masterpiece. The moonlight on her skin is sex. 

“The booze was shit, anyway,” Bellatrix says, distracting herself.

Hermione sniffs her, giving a soft laugh. “Couldn’t have been too awful.” 

“It’s piss water. Swill. Bile mixed with troll puke.” 

“You have very strong feelings on the matter.” 

“Also, the meatloaf was dry. And that girl Draco brought….The nerve of her, stepping out of the house looking like that. I’ve seen sexier house elves.” 

“She’s very nice.” 

“She’s a tart.” 

Hermione gives her a knowing look, her smile sly. It’s a strange expression to see on a girl who looks so innocent and it intrigues Bellatrix, makes her lean forward, bringing their faces close together. She expects the girl to flinch away, to flush and slip off, like mist through her fingers. Instead she stays perfectly still, meeting Bellatrix’s eyes without a sign of wavering. And damned if the little trollop doesn’t smirk. 

My, my, Bellatrix thinks. What do we have here? 

Gryffindor courage indeed. 

“Oi!” comes a shout from below. “My bollocks are freezing off!” 

“You’re as flat as a Ken doll, Ronald,” Hermione snaps. “Shut it!” 

“What is a Ken doll?” Bellatrix asks.

Hermione explains and Bellatrix’s face freezes. She coughs. She sneezes. And then she cackles, her head thrown back, her hair dark on her shoulders, her lips sinfully red. 

Steady on, Granger, Hermione thinks. She licks her lips, her mouth suddenly dry. 

“We really should be getting down,” Hermione says. “They won’t go anywhere until we do.” 

Bellatrix groans. She looks down and the ground seems impossibly far, as if she’s staring down from a broomstick, fluttering in the clouds. 

“Must we?” 

Giving that small smile again, Hermione places a hand on her thigh. Bellatrix tries not to look down at it, tries to ignore the stupid giddy butterflies flying happily in her stomach. 

“I could cast a feather-light charm on you,” Hermione says. “And carry you down. On my back.” 

“I didn’t know you wanted me on top of you,” Bellatrix purrs. “We’ve only just started chatting after all.” 

Hermione rolls her eyes. “You’re not as charming as you think you are.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes.” 

Bellatrix huffs. “I’m sure you’re mistaken.” 

“Yes or no, Bellatrix?” 

“It’s always a yes to you, Granger.” 

Ah, there it is. A flicker, some undefinable emotion. It is brief, but it is there, a candle flame flicker. She wants to cup it in her hands, breathe it to life. 

Holding her wand, Hermione murmurs the incantation. “Come on, let’s get this over with.” 

Carefully, trying not to look down, Bellatrix maneuvers herself so that she is pressed against Hermione’s back. She wraps herself around her, eagerly pressing into the warmth of her body. 

Hermione lets out a croak, tugging at her arms. 

“Sorry,” Bellatrix murmurs, loosening her grip. 

“It’s fine,” Hermione gasps. She pauses. “Bellatrix, what is that in my back?” 

“Calm down, Granger. It’s only my wand.” 

“Big wand.” 

“Very.” 

“Right.” Hermione shifts, trying to acquaint herself with the body pressing into her, as close to her as her own skin. “Why are you wearing combat boots?” 

“You never know when you’ll have to dole out a good curb stomping.” 

“At a party? With friends and family?” 

“Especially those kind.” 

Hermione laughs and Bellatrix feels her chest swell with pride. She wants very much to make her laugh again. Every day, maybe. 

“Hold on. But try to keep your bony arms away from my neck.” 

“They’re not bony! They’re very supple and soft, I’ll have you know. Except the biceps. Those are pure, fire blasted iron.” 

And down they go, Bellatrix clinging for dear life to Hermione’s back. She tries not to acknowledge the trust she is putting in the young woman. Instead, she focuses on the way she moves, the feel of her muscles coiling and releasing. The way she smells, like dust settled after a cool rain, like lemongrass and plain black tea. 

Hermione’s feet hit the ground and the idiots are clapping, Potter and Weasel flushed with the cold air. 

“Well done, Mione,” Potter says, smiling that stupid dazzling smile of his. “Can we go back in now?” 

Hermione removes the charm from Bellatrix and the dark haired witch takes an abrupt step forward. The boys flinch back, faces panicked. 

Bellatrix giggles. She retrieves the empty firewhisky bottle from the ground. “Recycling,” she says by way of explanation, and off she bounces. 

“Merlin, she terrifies me,” Ron says. 

“Yeah,” Harry says. 

“I think she’s cute.” 

Heads whipping around, both boys stare at Hermione, their expressions shocked. 

“What?” Harry says. 

Hermione gives a distracted smile. “Hm?” 

“Didn’t know you fancied witches,” Ron says, his face suddenly red enough to start a nuclear meltdown. 

“That’s because you’re about as observant as a deaf man with no sense of smell and onions for eyes,” Hermione says. 

Harry winces. Ron looks three seconds from a heart attack. 

With a deep scowl, Hermione twists on her heel and stalks towards the house. 

Both boys exhale. 

Inside, Hermione weaves through the press of bodies and voices, intent on finding the liquor table. Bellatrix had the right idea. There is no surviving these things sober. 

Bellatrix. 

Her stomach knots and she bites her lip. When did that happen, she wonders. Was it last Christmas when Andromeda placed a Santa hat with a sticking charm to Bellatrix’s head? She spent the entire night frowning adorably, every step causing the bell at the end of the hat to give a cheery jingle. 

Or was it summer holiday when she came out to the pool wearing practically nothing and her legs were so fucking long and the line of her throat was just perfect. 

Maybe it was that night in October when she found her curled up in a chair in the library, spectacles perched on the end of her nose, her face inches from a book that looked suspiciously like a bodice ripper. A very graphic bodice ripper if the brief flash of words Hermione saw was anything to go by. But then, she hadn’t seen much, Bellatrix screeching like a banshee and chasing her from the room, screaming about all the ways she would rip her hair out. 

She wasn’t sure when, but somewhere in there Bellatrix Black had become very interesting. Interesting enough to think about at the end of the night, just as she dropped off into sleep. And certainly interesting enough to think about first thing in the morning, stretching and yawning, her name like a bright thing behind her eyes. 

She’s nearly there, eyes on the salvation of a very nice looking bottle of wine, when cool fingers wrap around her wrist, pulling her. She opens her mouth to speak, but a hand presses over her lips. A whirl and a door slam later and she’s in darkness. 

The sound of the party muffled, Hermione raises her hands. Carefully, she touches the face pressed close to her own, traces the nose, the lips, the sharp line of a jaw. The chin, the throat, down cool fabric until her fingers brush what is very likely to be a corset. 

“Bellatrix.” 

“Hello, Granger.” 

“What do you think you’re doing?” 

“Seducing you.” 

She begins to retort, but her mouth snaps shut. She blinks in the darkness.

“Oh,” she says. 

“That’s it? No witty come back? No inspired diatribe?” 

“I’m not really sure what to say.” It’s a first for her. 

Fingers smooth over her sweater, running over her stomach, dipping lower, toying with the button of her pants.

“It’s not what you should say, but what you should do,” Bellatrix whispers, her teeth at her earlobe. 

“Are you saying - “ 

“Merlin’s infected bowels, less talking, more snogging, Granger.” 

And then they are kissing, Bellatrix’s lips tracing over her own, her hands curling in her hair, fitting their mouths together. Bellatrix’s tongue touches hers and she’s sure her chest will explode, her eyes will melt right out of her skull. And then she deepens the kiss and fuck, she understands everything. The songs, the books, the poems - all that garbage about longing and passion and fucking and love, she knows what it means now. It’s no longer an abstract idea to her, it is a real thing, clutched between her hands, wrapping around her tongue. 

It’s Bellatrix Fucking Black. Tasting like firewhisky and promises, tasting like sex and love. 

Their lips part, Hermione chasing, Bellatrix laughing as she presses her into the wall, denying her. 

“Now, now, Granger. Best not to be hasty. Good things come with patience, don’t you know?” 

“You’re one to lecture me about patience.” 

A quiet chuckle. “Would you like to have dinner with me?” 

“Dinner?” 

A sigh of exasperation. “Yes, woman. Dinner. We eat, have good conversation, perhaps more of this mouth to mouth action, I sacrifice a few orphans. The usual.” 

“Erm - I - “ 

“Fine, you’ve convinced me. I’ll leave the orphan bit out. Say yes.” 

Hermione stutters. 

Warm breath touches her lips, moves, teeth nipping at her pulse. 

“Say yes, pet.” 

Hermione swallows and prays she doesn’t die. 

“Yes,” she says. An exhalation of breath, an admittance. 

She can feel Bellatrix smile. “Lovely. Wear nice knickers. Lacey ones.” 

Hermione gapes and then Bellatrix is gone, the closet door open, letting in the light. 

Ambling by, Harry Potter comes to an abrupt halt. He peers into the closet, looking down at the girl puddled on the floor.

“Mione! Are you okay?” 

She looks at him. She grins. “Bellatrix Black just snogged me.” 

“Damn,” Harry says. “How was it?” 

“Fucking hot.” 

“Put it here.” 

They bump fists. 

Harry considers. “Malfoy is gonna have an aneurysm.” 

“Fuck Malfoy.” 

Harry snickers. “So was there tongue?” 

“Close the door, Harry. Let me tell you - “ 

He shuts the door and they light their wands and Hermione tells him everything.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, several of you asked for an add on to this, so here it is! But no more! We have other fics to write, stop trying to distract me with this cuteness.

Bellatrix Black is many things. She is a survivor. She is a warrior. She is a fanatic and a mad woman and a murderer. She is a poison coated blade. She is a descendant of the primordial ooze, a dark, instinctual creature. 

She is also sure she is one hell of a sexy mama jama. 

“How do I look, Cissa?” She asks, twirling. 

Nose buried in the Daily Prophet, Narcissa peers over the top of the paper, one eyebrow arched to the extreme. She casts a critical eye over her sister. 

“You look very….gothic.” 

“Yes, yes,” Bellatrix says, impatient. “But am I beautiful? Mysterious? Sensuous? Would you ravish me?” 

“Bellatrix.” 

“Yes?” She is smiling, expectant, teeth bared in a too wide grin. 

“You’re my sister. Ravishment is very decidedly not on the table.” 

Huffing, Bellatrix leans over her sister, draping herself around her neck. “Have some imagination, Cissa.” 

A sigh. “You are adequate.” 

“Adequate?” Bellatrix reels back, scandalized. Her, Bellatrix Fucking Black, only adequate? Not on your tits. She eats adequacy for breakfast and shits excellence. Obviously. 

“Bellatrix.” 

She doesn’t care for the look in Narcissa’s eye, the way she folds her paper away and steeples her finger. Looking wise and severe. 

“This is Hermione Granger we’re talking about.” 

“Oh, is it? I thought it was Molly Weasley. Hold that thought, let me go put on my mudblood murdering robes. Certainly can’t go like this. Silly me.” 

Narcissa’s face remains smooth, unimpressed.

Bellatrix sighs, deflating. Just once she would love to ruffle those ridiculous feathers of hers. Perhaps light them on fire. The night is young, after all. 

“Hermione Granger,” Narcissa says, “is not a common tart to be taken to the nearest grubby pub and rolled in the hay afterwards. You need a soft touch with this. Delicacy.” 

“Oh, I have delicacy.” Like a hammer to the face, to be sure. 

“You must be considerate. Kind.” 

Ask before she tears the girl’s ridiculous muggle clothes to shreds in a desperate bid to have her naked and sweating? Hm, well, one can try. 

“Most of all, you must have the perfect gift.” 

“Oh, I have that covered.” 

Narcissa’s eyes narrow, glinting in the firelight. “May I see it?” 

“No,” Bellatrix snorts, coughs into her hand. “It’s personal, isn’t it?” 

“Bellatrix.” 

“Narcissa.” 

Narcissa smiles. “Bella, please. I only want to help.” 

Merlin’s goopy throat phlegm, but why does the woman have to look like that? One moment arched and spiny, the next smiling, a thousand degrees of sweet and charming. 

“Fine.” She very loudly, very slowly drags her feet to stand at her sister’s side. With a flourish, she snaps the gift into view. 

They are Bulgarian Stranglers. Vividly violet, the heads of them bright lipped and grinning. Mischievous things, but easily cared for; simply provide a house elf or two for their adorable, grabby little murderous vines. And perhaps one would be wise to keep one’s fat fingers away from their teeth. 

Narcissa stares, looking as if she has just stepped her dainty heel into a fresh pile of troll dung.

“You cannot give those to her,” she says, trying to extract a lock of blonde hair from a particularly amorous vine. 

“What? Why? These are perfectly intelligent plants. And they sing you to sleep. Right boys?” She tickles them under their cute little chins and they grin, croak and burst into a low hum, weaving their vines. 

“They also choke you to death while you sleep.”

Bellatrix waves a dismissive hand. “Semantics.” 

Standing on the doorstep of 12 Grimmauld Place, Bellatrix leans down and examines her teeth in the shiny brass door handle. She fluffs her hair, gives her bodice a wiggle and a wink as she makes sure there is an appealing amount of cleavage on display. 

“Lovely, darling,” she tells herself. The girl won’t stand a chance in the face of such magnificence. 

She knocks. Her face quickly loses its smile as the door is opened and Harry Potter peers out at her. She doesn’t care for the smile on his face, as if the little bollocks licker knows something. Frowning, she crosses her arms and locks her jaw. 

“Hullo,” Harry Fucking Potter, the Asshole Who Shouldn’t Have Lived says. “Would you like to come in and wait? Mione’s nearly done.”

“I’ll wait here,” she says. 

Harry Fucking Potter, the Twat Who Should Shut His Smirking Gob, nods, his green eyes shining. Bellatrix tries very hard not to sneer.

And then she is standing there, touching Potter on his shoulder with an easy smile. She looks at Bellatrix with those warm eyes, like melted chocolate, like whispers in the small hours of the morning. 

Bellatrix Black does not swoon. She is a dignified, mature witch, not some jelly kneed teenager. But she does think about it, swallowing and smoothing her skirts, desperately trying to pin down her fluttering heart. She curls her lips, painting on her best confident smile, and is gratified to see the girl’s cheeks flush. 

Got you, Bellatrix thinks, grinning a toothy smile. 

“Hello, Bellatrix,” Hermione says. She reaches out a hand and Bellatrix catches it in her own hands, bringing it close to brush the bare skin of her chest. 

“Hello, pet,” she purrs.

Potter coughs and shifts. “Well. Have fun, then.” 

“Don’t wait up,” Bellatrix says, offering her arm. She glows as Hermione takes it, her hand distractingly warm against the inside of her elbow. 

And they’re off, Bellatrix leading, all but bouncing and buzzing with nervous energy. She can’t resist a glare at Potter over her shoulder, sticking her tongue out. He waves. She makes a mental note to burn his garden. 

“You look lovely,” Hermione says. She has an uncharacteristic husk to her voice, a bit rough, like she might be thinking of even rougher things. 

Oh, Bellatrix would die a thousand times to see what she is thinking. Better yet, she would die a thousand times more to do exactly what she is thinking.

But not yet. Patience. Delicacy. 

“Do you mind a side-along?” she asks. 

“Of course not,” Hermione says. “I trust you.” 

Odd. To be trusted. Even more odd is the warm glow in Bellatrix’s chest, the adoring smile that lifts her lips. She coughs, banishing it. She is Bellatrix Black, former Death Eater, current badass. She isn’t a gooey, disgusting mess of nerves. She definitely doesn’t want to skip the dine and go straight to the wine, and from the wine to the lips, and from the lips lower, and lower, and lower. 

“Bellatrix?” Hermione says, watching her with a frown. “Are you okay?” 

Bellatrix smiles, dazed. “Very much so.” 

The soft look on her face makes Hermione laugh. “About the side-along?” 

“Mm,” Bellatrix says. She rouses herself with a sigh. “Yes, right. Hold on tightly, pet. It would be a shame to leave bits of you behind.” 

A rip and a twist of bones later, she deposits them a little roughly on a beach. Dark clouds gather on the horizon, nearly black in the sun. The waves are green and harsh, frothy foam on sharp rocks. But the air is warm, smells of salt and sea creatures. 

Hissing, Bellatrix snaps her fingers, conjuring a parasol. She props it over her shoulder, shielding herself and Hermione. 

Biting her lip, Hermione looks at the dark witch, doing her best not to laugh. “Bellatrix, it’s cloudy. There’s hardly any sun.”

“There’s enough to melt me to a puddle of skin and hair,” Bellatrix growls. 

“Perhaps you chose the locale unwisely?” 

Bellatrix huffs. “Granger, I’m never wrong. You’ll learn that quickly. Now bring yourself along quick like, you silly girl.” 

Still smirking, Hermione follows behind her. She tries not to laugh at the image before her: Bellatrix, dressed from head to toe in black, twirling a brightly colored parasol and grumbling like a grumpy goblin, high stepping through sand with severe distaste. Her stomach flutters and she wants to catch the older woman’s hand, to spin her around and kiss her soundly. But Bellatrix is easily distracted and such a move would surely have her too distracted to do anything else for at least an hour. 

On second thought….

Bellatrix stops short, Hermione nearly colliding with her back. 

“Here,” Bellatrix says. She spears the parasol into the sand, and stands with her hands on her hips, an explorer at the head of a long voyage. She gives a careless gesture. “See? All picked out.” 

There is a blanket on the sand, a wicker basket waiting on it.

“Very nice,” Hermione says, hiding her smile. 

Bellatrix grunts, swipes at her forehead. “Merlin’s syphilis covered bollocks, I hate the sun. Sit, Granger. And do pay attention.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” Hermione sits and Bellatrix looks at her hungrily. 

Hermione roots through the basket, finding all manner of foods, from sandwiches, to most strangely, chicken soup.

“I wasn’t sure what you would like,” Bellatrix says. She sits down slowly, her fingers knotting together. “What does one eat on a beach day?” 

“Whatever one wants,” Hermione says. She offers a sandwich. 

Eyes lighting up, Bellatrix crams the thing into her mouth like it’s her last meal, devouring half with a single chew and a hard swallow. Noting Hermione’s shocked face, she grimaces, holding the remains of the sandwich with two fingers. 

Hermione laughs, that soft laugh that makes Bellatrix feel like she might turn into big fluffy cloud of happiness and sunshine and light.

She hates all three of those things. 

“You’re passionate about everything, aren’t you?” Hermione says. 

Bellatrix nearly exits her body stage right as the girl reaches over, tucking a windblown curl behind her ear. The touch is unexpected, but it’s soft, surprisingly tender. She can’t think of the last time someone touched her like that, like she is the most precious thing in existence. It makes her throat feel tight, her lips trembly. 

Hermione eats like she does everything else; slowly, in an organized manner, carefully chewing the exact number of recommended times. Watching her, Bellatrix smirks.

We’ll have you out of that in no time, she thinks to herself. She looks forward to teaching the girl just how wonderful it can be to lose control. She looks forward to teaching her quite a few things, actually. 

Noticing Bellatrix’s crocodile grin, Hermione freezes like a kitten in a laser light. She squints.

“Everything okay?” she asks. 

Bellatrix’s grin grows wider. “Eat your food, pet. And tell me about yourself.” 

“What would you like to know?” 

“Everything, of course.” 

They slip into conversation like a favorite sweater, easily, comfortably. They while away the hours in a blissful bubble, that heady phase of learning and discovering, uncovering, tracing the lines of their paths with intent fingertips. They talk until there is nothing else to say, and with that done, they linger in silence, comfortable and warm, the waves and the approaching storm clouds lending an odd intimacy. 

After a time, Hermione shifts, propping herself on an elbow at Bellatrix’s side. She toys with loose threads on the blanket, biting the inside of her cheek. 

“Would it be presumptive if I gave you a gift?” Hermione asks. 

Bellatrix blinks, her dark brows climbing her forehead. “Me? A gift?” 

“Yes. It’s not terribly interesting, but well,” she tugs on an earlobe, gathering her courage, “I thought that perhaps you could use it.”

“Oh. I mean to say - “ Bellatrix looks away, blinking at the shadow of the sun behind the clouds. “It is not needed. But appreciated regardless.” 

Grinning, Hermione digs into the pocket of her jeans. When she withdraws her hand, she is holding a small talisman. It is a stone, deep green and smooth, lines of onyx amid the green. 

Holding it in her palm, Hermione smiles up at the witch. “It calms you,” she explains. “The next time you feel like climbing into a tree to escape a crowd, just hold this stone and you’ll feel much better.” 

Bellatrix brushes her fingers over the stone, over the lines on Hermione’s palm. She feels it, a warmth. She smells books and the sharp tang of magic. But more interestingly, below that, she smells a familiar mix of lemongrass and tea, tastes a bit of mint on the tip of her tongue. 

“That feels...perfect,” Bellatrix says, letting out a breath. She swallows as Hermione takes her hand, pressing the warm little stone into her hand. “I have something for you as well.” 

The book is very old, the cover dark, worn in places from countless hands. 

Bellatrix clears her throat. “I had something much more interesting picked out, but Cissa felt you would appreciate this more than Bulgarian Stranglers.”

“Bulgarian Stranglers,” Hermione says, looking up from the book. “You wanted to give me Bulgarian Stranglers?”

“They’re very cuddly.”

“Right. They cuddle the breath out of you. Permanently.” 

“Exactly.” Bellatrix is pleased with herself. “Instead, you get a nice heavy tome of the history of the Noble and the Most Ancient House of Black. Essentially, you’ll still be strangled. But mostly with disgust.” 

“I prefer that, if I’m honest.” 

A large drop of rain splashes onto the sand. It escalates quickly, more drops falling, then one drop indiscernible from the other, becoming a deluge. Bellatrix taps the parasol with her wand, uttering a waterproofing spell. She reaches out, drawing Hermione to her, the pair tucking their legs under themselves curling close together. 

Eyes on Bellatrix’s lips, Hermione traces the lines of her cheekbones, the cut of her jaw. She touches the tattoo on her neck.

The closeness sends a thrill down her spine. She’s tempted to reach up, to pull her shirt over her head, to unbutton her jeans, to press closer. She is almost sure Bellatrix wouldn’t mind. In fact, she thinks the dark witch might be just as eager to shed her own clothes. 

Patience, Bellatrix had told her, that wicked gleam in her eyes. No, not that. She is anything but patient in this. But she does savor the anticipation, rolling it over her tongue, tasting it fully. 

Eyes as dark as the storm over them, Bellatrix watches. She can all but see the thoughts in the girl’s head and it makes her shiver, makes her hands tremble. She licks her lips, Hermione’s eyes chasing the movement. 

She takes Hermione’s hands, placing them on her hips. She leans forward, ghosting their lips together, pulling away. She is acutely aware of what the girl is feeling, the rare aggression bubbling up under her skin. She wants to feed it, to lavish it with attention, to allow it to shape her to its own design. So she teases, not allowing their lips to touch, mingling their breath. 

Hermione, as one would suspect, does not disappoint. She surges forward with more force than expected, knocking Bellatrix on her back. Ignoring the rain that mixes in her hair, runs hot down her scalp, she brings their mouths together like a drowning woman desperate for a moment of air. 

Bellatrix Black, dark witch, arsonist, all around asshole, moans like a wanton wench. It is very unbecoming, and certainly qualifies as peasant behavior as no respectable pure-blood woman would ever find herself enjoying an exchange of bodily fluids with quite so much gusto. 

But enjoy it she does. She twists her hands into the girl’s hair, welcomes her tongue with a nip and a firm stroke of her own. She wraps her legs around her hips and loses time, all sense of self. There is only the kiss, and the strong desire to make sure it never ends.

Dimly, the purist that lives in the swamps of Bellatrix’s mind watches with a curled lip, mirroring Hermione’s thoughts from the party, wondering how in a banshee’s twisted knickers this could have happened. 

Was it Halloween? The mudblood had been a bit tipsy, giggling, meeting Bellatrix’s eyes with too much focus, too much interest. She laughed at her worst joke, bless her soul, the one about the pure-blood, the muggle, and the Dementor. No one laughs at that joke. 

Or maybe it was at the beginning of spring. The porch was wet with rain, the sky grey, everything smelling of cut grass and new leaves. Granger was sitting on the step that led down into the garden. She looked up, smiling a bit when she saw Bellatrix watching her. Her eyes were like fresh honey, amber and warm in the light. She could have counted every freckle on her nose. She could have laid a finger on her lips and felt her breath like a sunrise on her skin.

No. It happened after a long night of bad dreams and little sleep. She slipped from her bed and into the hall. She came out just as Granger was creeping toward the guest room and they froze, staring at one another. There must have been something in her eyes, some residual bit of nightmare fear because suddenly the girl was coming toward her, reaching for her. And Bellatrix caved into her, pressed her face into her neck and inhaled and that was it. Her arms went around her and she was done. The little cage of bone around her heart snapped and it was beating, blooming.

The purist sneers, spitting. Disgraceful. 

There’s nothing left of the fire except embers by the time she returns. Waiting, Narcissa smiles as she listen to Bellatrix try to be stealthy. She pulls it off about as well as a horse clattering through on a glass floor. But try she does, her brow furrowed, her lip caught between her teeth. 

“How was it?” 

Bellatrix freezes. She turns her head, the smile fixed on her face. 

Narcissa squints. She gasps. “Bellatrix, is that a hickey on your neck?”

“No,” the witch says too loudly. She sighs. “Yes.” 

“Ah. I see. Was it….” 

“Was it what?” 

“Agreeable?” 

“We didn’t bang, you mad woman. It was only the first date.” 

Narcissa sniffs. “Witches don’t bang.” 

Eyes rolling into the back of her head, Bellatrix snorts. “Oh really?” 

“Quite,” Naricissa says. The corner of her mouth lifts and a dark light flickers in her eyes. “Witches don’t do something so juvenile as “bang”. Witches fuck, Bellatrix.” 

“Cissa, really!” She pauses, allowing the words to fully sink in. “Wait. What witches have you been fucking, Narcissa?” 

Narcissa smirks. 

“A lady never tells.”


End file.
